


The Hills Are Alive

by imaginarycircus



Category: Lizzie Bennet Diaries
Genre: Crack, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-15
Updated: 2013-01-15
Packaged: 2017-11-25 15:44:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/640447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imaginarycircus/pseuds/imaginarycircus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by <a href="http://41.media.tumblr.com/53b917120ad16bbc00aa3a0b13ba5f6b/tumblr_mgnnqjbmDG1qarv5so1_500.png">this fantastic comic by Smooshless.</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Hills Are Alive

It was a Saturday night and Lizzie was soaking in a hot tub full of epsoms salts and lavender oil, trying to work the kinks out of her leg muscles. She was pretty sure she had shin splints. She only knew what shin splints were because she'd dated Rob Kennedy in the eleventh grade and he'd run track and cross-country. She'd almost Facebook messaged him to ask him what they felt like, but decided WebMD was probably less likely to ask her why she'd broken up with him in the cafeteria loudly enough for half the room to hear and why she hadn't taken any of his eighty bajillion subsequent phone calls. 

She was sipping a glass of merlot and had just popped three Advils and prayed they combination wasn't currently eating holes through her liver, but she was so miserably sore it might be worth the liver damage if her legs would just stop aching. The internet had suggested hot baths with epsoms salts, ibuprofen, rest, wearing shoes with adequate arch and ankle support, and walking on soft ground/turf whenever possible. She'd even broken down and taken a taxi to work on Friday morning. 

The taxi was five minutes later than she'd hoped and wow was the driver friendly. He could give Darcy a run for him money in a surly and silent contest. Well, the old Darcy. Jury was still out on the new Darcy. Pemberley Darcy. Lizzie had admitted to herself after 2.5 glasses of merlot that if she'd met Pemberley Darcy first she would have probably had a starry eyed crush on him even though he was sort of oddly formal and awkward, but she was pretty sure she would have found those endearing traits. And that's when she realized that she DID find them endearing traits. She'd gone to ease herself down onto the bed when she'd had that little epiphany and missed. While the hills were unforgiving, they had nothing on the hardwood floor meeting her ass at twenty miles an hour, or however fast you're going when you fall. Thankfully the wine probably dulled the impact. Although it sure as hell hadn't felt like it. She'd crawled into bed, too tired to get up and brush her teeth. She felt bad about it, but not bad enough to get up and make her lower half move. 

She woke on Sunday morning with a headache, a pain in her side which was probably her liver disintegrating, and incredibly stiff legs. Also her ass felt broken. She hobbled to the bathroom and found a orange sized bruise on her backside and consoled herself that at least no one else would see it. Then she felt a little depressed that no one else would see it. She brushed her teeth twice, because wine residue left little sweaters on her teeth, got dressed and went down to make tea or coffee or anything. She opened the fridge and let out a string of curses that would have given her mother the vapors and a migraine. She'd meant to go to the store yesterday. She was out of... well, everything. In the fridge there was a lonely bottle of tonic water left by the owners, a doggie bag that Lizzie should really, really throw away, and about an inch of skim milk that had gone off. 

She popped more advil and drank two glasses of water before forcing herself out the door and down the hill to the nearest little market. It was only two blocks and downhill was awful, but trudging back with her bags, uphill--well, she almost burst into tears. She was muttering under her breath, "I hate these hills. Unforgiving, my ass. They are pure evil. They were probably that Czar who had all those serfs killed in their last life. It was one of the Peters, wasn't it? Ugh. I HATE THESE HILLS. Hate. Hate. Hate." 

She unlocked the front door and almost fell on the floor in relief. Flat ground. Blessed flat ground. She made tea and toast and eggs and curled up on the overstuffed sofa and channel surfed. By noon she felt much better, but did not feel at all like going anywhere outside. 

Which was just as well. Because it's a little known fact that the Hills of San Francisco are sentient and have freakishly good hearing. They had heard every slur and imprecation out of Lizzie's mouth and they were beyond insulted. Market Street whispered, "Oh, it's on, Ms. Bennet. You better watch your step." Lombard Street swore it would have vengeance. Pacific Avenue and Broadway shouted, "This is war!" 18th street shouted back, "No! This is Sparta!" And all the other streets rolled their proverbial eyes, because although they could hear without ears, streets don't have eyes. That's just ridiculous. 

Lizzie sat in her apartment, blissfully ignorant of what the hills had planned for her in the upcoming days. Presidio said, with an unmistakable undercurrent of threat in it's voice that resonated at a frequency that only bats could hear, that Ms. Bennet better invest heavily in ice packs, band aids, and neosporin because there wasn't a sidewalk in the city that wasn't about to develop dips and bumps wherever she walked and then quickly change back to flat when she was able to stand up and look at what she'd tripped over. The hills were planning to stretch beneath her feet, making their angles steeper, stretching out so that it took longer for her to climb up or down them. Oh, it was on.


End file.
